


Algorithm for the Dissipation of Bubbles

by hyacinth_sky747



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 18:58:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4677680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyacinth_sky747/pseuds/hyacinth_sky747
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A ridiculous day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Algorithm for the Dissipation of Bubbles

Sherlock knew it was going to be a ridiculous day before breakfast was over. Into every life come days that try ones soul. He knew that. He could tolerate that. What he couldn’t tolerate was bountiful ridiculousness from sunup to sundown and beyond. 

The ridiculousness that day started, as usual, with his new flatmate, John.

“John, must I remind you again that the pepper goes to the left of the salt.”

John looked up from his perusal of the morning paper. His hair was sticking out in a dozen different directions as if it was a sign post using John as a pole on which to perch. He had egg yolk spotting the front of his pajamas. Sherlock winced. 

“Sorry,” John said in an off-hand sort of way as if this was some trifling matter. It was not a trifling matter. Sherlock had informed the man on six different occasions of the correct positioning of the salt and pepper. Perhaps he should have taken Mycroft up his offer to go live in that cottage in Surrey instead of getting a flatmate. No one was using it. Sherlock winced again, though this time he couldn’t blame John. Another ridiculous thought. He could never live anywhere but London. 

Though, if he had a flatmate that wasn’t an imbecile he wouldn’t be having those kinds of thoughts in the first place, so maybe he could blame John after all. 

~*~

Sherlock could have stopped the flow of the ridiculous if he had left John behind. He’d tried to. He had his coat on and was about to say, “Well, I’m off.” Or maybe he would have walked out without saying anything at all. Less words that way. He was just mulling this over when John spoke.

“Going out?”

“Obviously.”

“Might be a bit warm for your coat.”

Sherlock paused and noted that he was already sweating. John, in fact, was sitting in front of a fan, watching a weather report about the record heat wave that was settling over London. Good lord, London in the heat was just silly. 

He didn’t want to leave his coat behind though. It had all his secret things in its pockets. Still, he might look a bit ridiculous wandering around in his coat. He turned his back to John, removed his coat and shuffled his most important secret things into the pockets of his trousers. A magnifying glass, his phone and wallet, some papers, and a set of keys.

“Better,” John said. “Still the long trousers and long sleeves? Right, I’d better come with in case you…die.” 

~*~

John was saying things. Sherlock allowed him to speak but John hadn’t said he should listen so…He did catch a phrase here and there. The content of these phrases assured him he was right not to listen. 

“It’s not sanitary… Mrs. Hudson says…Really shouldn’t make that much noise…”

It was all babble. Sherlock tuned into his city. There were a hundred things to notice, dismiss, file away, scowl at and beam at in secret delight. It was very distracting to have John constantly tugging at his arm. 

“Do you need something?” he asked in irritation after the third time John had tugged at him. 

“Sprinkler,” John said, pointing. Sherlock had nearly walked through the spray. He’d noticed it, of course. He’d just dismissed it as unimportant.

“And the other times?”

John looked befuddled. 

“The other two times you tugged on me. What did I miss?”

“Oh, a…well, a small child and a bus.” 

“A bus?”

“A big, red one, yes.”

Sherlock looked John up and down, filing, deducing, cataloging. He hadn’t done so since he’d first met the man. 

“Right,” he said when he was done. “You can come with me.”

“I already was coming with you.”

“But now I want you to.”

A shadow of anger crossed John’s face but it cleared quickly and he laughed. 

“You need to stop babbling for a moment though. I need to think.”

John did as requested for about two minutes. Then he began to feel a bit silly to be standing in the middle of the pavement with a man staring blankly over his head and making strange fluttering motions with his hands.

“What are you thinking about?”

Sherlock grimaced in annoyance but he still kept staring blankly over John’s head. 

“You.”

John was pleased and rather uncomfortable with that answer. 

“Just…are you nearly done? People are starting to stare.”

Sherlock ignored him for another moment and then closed his eyes, opened them, and resumed walking. 

“What was all that?” John wanted to know. 

“I was cleaning out a drawer for you.”

“A drawer?”

“Yes, John, in my mind palace.”

“Oh,” John said. “Of course. Thank you.”

“It’s just a drawer,” Sherlock said. “I can always empty it again.”

John looked away to hide his smile. 

~*~

At The Yard Sherlock took care to introduce his new flatmate to Gavin.

“Yes, John said, “Lestrade and I have met on several occasions.”

“It’s Greg,” Lestrade said in a defeated sort of way.

“I know,” John assured him. 

Sherlock ignored this. “You have a case. A good one. I can tell by your buttons.”

Lestrade did not take the bait. He ignored his buttons entirely. 

“Yes,” he said. “It’s a bit of a story.”

“Let’s hear it,” Sherlock barked.

“Shut up then and let me tell it.” Lestrade got up to pour himself another cup of coffee and adjust the blinds. Sherlock rolled his eyes and waited impatiently. 

 

~*~

On the walk home Sherlock wanted to know what John thought.

“About the case?” 

Sherlock just looked at him in a way that screamed _That is a ridiculous question._

“Okay, okay,” John said, “Well, it’s a bit odd isn’t it? Not many twelve-year-olds go missing for two days and show up back in their own bed with a tattoo of a lantern on their arm and no recollection of being missing.” 

“Oh,” Sherlock said, “I’m so glad I asked. You think it’s odd. How illuminating.” 

“Hang on,” John said, “I was just…”

Sherlock held up a hand. “No.”

“What do you mean? I…”

“No, stop talking. I need to think.” 

Sherlock was not thinking about the case. He had a feeling he’d solved it already but he’d need to meet with one of his homeless network to verify the details. No, the case wasn’t troubling him. It was something about John. Something was off about him. Wrong. 

He steered John into a pub. It would be easier to study the man if he was standing still. 

“I think we ought to question the brother again. He’s older. Could have gotten himself mixed up in something. I saw a report on the news about…”

John stopped talking because Sherlock had put down his pint and was unfastening the buckle of John’s belt. 

“Sherlock!”

“I’m not interviewing the brother, John. And that thing you saw on the news was inaccurate at best.”

John pushed Sherlock’s hands away and took a step back. 

“What are you doing?” he hissed. People were starting to stare.

“You’ve missed a belt loop. It makes you look lopsided.”

John felt his heartbeat slow a little. 

“You can’t open my trousers in a public place. And you should ask before you do it at all.” 

“I wasn’t opening your trousers, John. I was merely helping with your belt. Just let…”

“No!” John said. He put his pint on the counter. “I’m going to the loo.”

When he returned Sherlock was pleased to note that he had fixed the belt. Really, he couldn’t be seen walking around with a lopsided person.  
~*~

One good thing about John was that he always fixed Sherlock a cup of tea when he boiled a kettle for himself. In the morning it was always a strong black tea and at night it was chamomile. The afternoon however could be anything from green to chai and back again. It lent an air of mystery to the afternoons.

It was never Oolong though. Oolong was not allowed in the house. 

This afternoon John set a glass of peach tea in front of him. It had ice in it. Sherlock pushed it across the table as far as his arm would reach.

“You’re welcome,” John said, settling in his armchair. 

“Feathers, John.”

“No, no feathers. That’s ice. It’s hot. You need to stay hydrated. You should drink it.” 

“No, tell me what ordinary people think of when they think of feathers.”

“For a case?” John wanted to know. Sherlock didn’t need to answer. The look on his face was enough. “Okay, well, birds I suppose. Umm, lightness, pillows, quills, down coats, tickling…”

“Got it.” Sherlock said. “You can stop.”

“Tickling? It’s a tickling case?” 

“If you call it A Ticklish Little Problem on your blog I will ban all fruit teas from the house forever.” 

“Even blueberry? The blueberry box was empty, you know. If you just admit you like it I will know to add it to the shopping list.”

Sherlock pretended not to hear him. 

~*~

In the evening John was stripped down to a pair of shorts and nothing else. He was staring into the fan and making humming noises into it. Sherlock caught him at it. The man didn’t even have the decency to look abashed. 

“It makes your voice go all funny,” was all he said.

“It makes _your_ voice go all funny,” Sherlock corrected. He was not about to hum into a fan. He hadn’t done that since he was six and Mycroft had scolded him. That thought suddenly made him want to hum into a fan very badly. 

He took this idea to the dumpster of his mind palace. He couldn’t quite bring himself to throw it in. He settled for putting it in two bin liners and leaving it propped against a wall. He then proceeded with his original intention of spreading himself out over the living room floor to cool off.

“You are quite, quite naked,” John said. 

“Ah, working on your observation skills I see.” Sherlock closed his eyes and wished he could close his ears as well. 

“Can I interest you in a napkin? Or a pair of boxer shorts?”

“No, I’m fine.”

John was blessedly quiet for several minutes. 

“You’re really very naked,” he said at last.

“For God’s sake, John, you’re a doctor. You were in the military. You cannot be that uncomfortable with a naked body.” 

“In the right social circumstances like a doctor’s office, or a locker room, or a bedroom, no. I’m not.”

Sherlock opened one eye to look up at John. He was smiling. Not really perturbed at all. 

“Just don’t look at me,” he said. “Get undressed yourself. It’s blistering.” 

John stood up. “I’m going to take a bath.”

He stood a moment longer, staring down at Sherlock. 

“What ?” Sherlock said, “What is it?”

John seemed to shake himself from his thoughts. “Nothing. Nothing. Just…you have a rather sizable penis…medically speaking.”

That’s what John said but what Sherlock heard was (and heard this, somehow, with his penis, even though his penis did not have ears, that’s how ridiculous life had become since the advent of John Watson) _You have a rather large and attractively delicious cock._

Then the man wandered off to take a bath. Naked.

~*~

The bath had bubbles in it. That meant, that of his own free will, John Watson had entered a shop and purchased bubble bath for the sheer joy of it. Sandalwood. John was nestled down into the bubbles up to his chin. His eyes were closed and he didn’t open them when he told Sherlock to get out. 

“No,” Sherlock said, “It’s a compliment. This is the best idea you’ve had since you shot the cabbie.” 

“You’re not getting in here with me, Sherlock. And I’m not getting out until every last bubble has popped so go amuse yourself while you wait your turn.” 

“We could put bathing suits on,” Sherlock suggested. 

“No,” John said. “I was here first.” 

John left him no choice. Sherlock knelt on the bathmat and stuck his hands into the cool water of John’s bath. 

John cracked open one eye.

“What are you doing?”

“Popping bubbles,” Sherlock said. It was the only logical solution. He would hurry the bubbles along. John would keep his word and surrender the bathtub and all the wonderful coolness and sandalwood scent would belong to Sherlock. 

John closed his eyes again. “There are thousands,” he said. 

That was true. But some of them were popping on their own and Sherlock was destroying one every second or so. There had to be some mathematical algorithm for the dissipation of bubbles. Did it depend on humidity? Air flow? The eagerness of the bubble popper? 

It suddenly occurred to Sherlock that when all the bubbles were popped not only would the bath be his but John would be disrobed. Cold probably. Vulnerable? 

Sherlock’s blood seemed to freeze in his veins and then leap up with hot licks of flame. At the same time John seemed to realize his own precarious state. He began to splash about with his little feet and hands, making waves, making bubbles. Both his eyes were open now and there was a small but steady light of panic in them.

Sherlock stopped popping bubbles. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to put that kind of light in John’s eyes.

“Are you sure you want to win this battle, John?” His voice was deep and stern with the effort of keeping it steady. 

John stilled and for a moment there was only the sound of the bathtub sea seething and frothing and, finally settling. 

“What do you mean?” John asked when it was silent.

“Don’t.” Sherlock said. “I know when you’re being purposefully obtuse and when we’ve actually reached the limits of your limited intelligence.”

He watched John swallow once. “I can’t promise it will mean something.”

That was enough for Sherlock. He rose and climbed into the tub, pushing John forward to settle in behind him. John was stiff and tense between Sherlock’s legs and arms for a moment. Sherlock put a hand on John’s forehead and another on his shoulder and eased him back. 

John put his hands on Sherlock’s knees. 

“I can’t promise that it won’t either,” he said. 

“It will just be what it is, John,” Sherlock said. “I’m not really good at…meaning things. But I think I might be horrible at not meaning things.”

John laughed and relaxed back into Sherlock’s embrace. Sherlock could feel his penis poking against John’s bum. 

“I just want to see your cock,” he said as a way of distracting John from this. 

“You could have just asked. You didn’t have to turn the whole of London into a steam bath to get a peek.” 

John swatted the bubbles away from in front of him, making a little peephole. Sherlock rested his chin on John’s shoulder as he peered down. 

“Is that as big as it gets?” he asked.

“No,” John said and he shifted, rubbed his backside against Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock bit down on John’s shoulder. 

“I might want to hold it,” he said. Then he licked the place he had bitten. He could see tiny teeth marks there. He wanted to do that to inside of John’s thighs. 

“You have my teeth marks,” he said. “I might want to leave them in other places.”

John arched his body from the floor of the tub but Sherlock put a hand on his belly, bringing him back, putting John’s bum back in contact with his cock. 

“Where?” John breathed.

“Your thighs, the insides, your bum, everywhere around there. Little bites or sucking bruises. I want you to walk around in them. I want you to feel me when I’m not there.”

John moved his hands up to Sherlock’s thighs and pressed his bum back against Sherlock’s cock.

“You’ll fucking drown in our present state. It’s all under water.”

Sherlock kicked the stopper from the drain with far too much force. The unfortunate object ended up in the sink. The drain gurgled in surprise and John let out a grunt as he grabbed Sherlock’s hand and wrapped it around his cock. 

He began guiding Sherlock’s hand, setting a fast and furious pace. 

“ Do it. Do it rough and say nasty things.”

He was whining. John was whining at him to treat him rough and say nasty things. Sherlock shoved him to his knees and smacked him hard on the bum with his free hand. John shivered and Sherlock watched his arse cheeks clench as John thrust into his other hand. 

“Turn over,” Sherlock said. He wanted to get John in his mouth, wanted to mark him like he’d promised. 

John let his head hang down between his shoulders and shook it. 

“I want it like this. You can fuck me. After. Or mark me. Just do it like this, rough, dirty, grind against me and smack me again.”

Sherlock wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from rutting against John’s backside after that. 

“Do you like it in your crack?” Sherlock said, rutting into it. “Like it right up your little bum?” He wiggled his finger back and forth rapidly against John’s arsehole. It let him in willingly. So he pushed. John pushed back onto it and rutted himself feverishly into Sherlock’s fist. 

Sherlock blushed. He could not believe the things he was saying and doing but he didn’t want to stop. “I only have so many hands, John. I can’t wank you and finger fuck you and spank you all at once.”

John came then. Sherlock felt warm come covering the backs of his fingers. He pulled his hand away, spread the mess in John’s crack and rutted between his cheeks until he came with one yell and another and another until he slumped over John’s back and felt the ache in his knees. 

~*~

There were bubbles again. And John with bubbles on his chin like an old man’s beard. But he was sitting in the bath like a little boy with his knees pulled up to his chest. 

“Were you emptying the drawer?”

“What?”

The water was warm, steaming, and the air blowing in from the window was cooler. There was a stiff wind. John was shivering. 

“In the mind palace. Your eyes were all blank and your hands were fluttery.” 

“Oh,” Sherlock said. “Yes. I told you it was only a drawer. Easy to empty. Was there a storm? It’s cooled off.”

John rose, trailing bubbles. He looked ridiculous and divine, like a broken down soldier sex god trailing bubble diamonds. He wrapped himself in a hideous tartan robe, heedless of breaking bubbles and trailed from the room.

~*~

“John?” 

John was face down on his bed. Under the covers. Everything was all wet. He was still shivering. 

“John?”

“I don’t want to move, Sherlock. It’d be easier but I don’t have anywhere to go. Can’t you just erase it? Delete it or whatever you do?” 

John had his deep and professional voice on but he looked like a little lad in pajamas begging to not be made to go to bed. It touched some deeply buried well of tenderness in Sherlock. 

He sat on the edge of the bed. 

“I don’t want to. I’ve just built you your own room.”

John sat up. “You said you emptied the drawer.”

“That was Greg Lestrade’s drawer really. You were just borrowing it.”

“You built me my own room?”

“Your own suite really. That’s why I was so busy I didn’t notice the storm. Was there a storm?”

“There was a storm when you had your finger up my arse. You’re very focused when you want to be aren’t you?” 

Sherlock didn’t answer. He just played with belt on John’s robe. 

“Want to make out a bit and then fuck me and buy me breakfast?” John wanted to know. 

~*~

Sherlock knew it was going to be a ridiculous day before he even had breakfast. He was sitting in his armchair, naked. John was also sitting in Sherlock’s armchair, naked. In fact, he was sitting on Sherlock’s lap, naked. They were both humming God Save the Queen into the fan. 

Into every life come people that change ones soul. Sherlock knew that. Sherlock could celebrate that. 

Even if John never learned which side the salt went on.


End file.
